By: Amnesia Grok

I’m sitting here on a Saturday afternoon & I’m reading about the end.

As in THE END.

As in predictions of the final curtain, visions of destruction. Trumpets & seals & cups & oodles of 7’s. Th-th-the-that’s all f-f-folks!

The earth, it will end in fire & in water & it will end in asteroids & in Mexicans.

Generation after generation, all riled up about an end that never knocked. Layer upon layer of dusty eschatologies, disproven by default.

Paul was all riled up & his eyes were struck blind & his hair was on fire.

& he said if you weren’t already married then don’t even bother getting married now!

There’s no time!

Tell everyone before it’s too late!

There was a real sense of urgency about it.

How many bad dates have to come & go before there’s just a collective yawn?

What if things just go on & on & on &…

Way past the point where there is any point to be had?

& everything gets older & worse & the sky less blue & the grass isn’t hardly green at all no more? & the Lincoln Memorial cracks & the paint on the barn fades & no one bothers to write new songs or to clean the animals’ cages?

On & on, without even the vague hope of a fiery end or some new Hitler to capture our attention for a minute or two?

That guy out there howling in the street? You know, the one with the sandwich board that reads //The End is Near\\?

He could turn out to have been an optimist!

by Michael A.

One typically retreats into an art museum to escape the world of crassness, sluthood and overbearing human beings. Therefore, it is with much chagrin I report that the Dallas Museum of Art is characterized by all of those qualities. A pity, since there are so few redeeming positives in the entire city of Dallas, a city only known for greedy people named J.R. and for the death of John F. Kennedy.

My criticism concerns the management style and the poor choice of modern day artwork, not to mention a rather disturbing encounter in the restroom area that was truly a moment of grotesque postmodernism.

I was harassed a total of four times by staff members to show my orange bracelet of admission, strongly implying I had snuck in illegally—an implication that screamed racial profiling. It appears as if the staff was convinced that a Mexican-Spaniard must surely be sneaking into such a wonderfully white environment—indeed, a scalable premise that parallels the issue of immigration. However, much to my disappointment, there was no apparent satire involved; they were just being jerks.

In fact, one staff member was so preoccupied with my conspicuous presence that she totally ignored a repugnant creature to her far left (I believe it is called a “child”) who was literally defacing a crafted and hanging artwork that fell low from the ceiling. The creature was literally in the center of the artwork destroying its grandeur, before the staff member took note and nervously ran to alert the parents. I laughed all the way to the next incongruent exhibit.

Speaking of the staff, although they were a refreshingly multiethnic group of people, I was concerned by the gum-chewing, the giggling and the overly youthful features of the attendants. I would prefer my art escorts to be mature, or at least give the illusion that they can comprehend great art. Alas, these Gen Xers seemed resentful of their jobs, as if the dichotomy between great art and absolute futility were something like the poor vs. the rich.

The label of “incongruent” is perhaps giving the art director too much credit. For the first floor celebrating modern artworks, the Dallas Museum featured a great deal of “urban art”, which may well be a paradoxical achievement. There is no great art in suffering itself; art is birthed from great suffering. However, I felt as if much of the first floor of modern art were simply rewarding urban artists for the pseudo-art of ironic reproduction.

Perhaps this is the sniggering monster that Andy Warhol started, but I felt nothing when I beheld one behemoth of an exhibit by Mark Bradford (“Mithra”), a sort of Noah’s Ark creation featuring torn up posters of the Will Ferrell movie “Semi Pro.” Reproduction is not art, though I do share the passion of seeing Will Ferrell movie posters destroyed. Ideally, the formula goes reproduction plus individual interpretation. This feature, and many others seem shockingly ill-prepared for such a prestigious display, one might actually liken it to a premature baby being delivered just to appease a dying grandmother. But I digress on the metaphors…

Now don’t judge me as an art snob just yet. I do acknowledge there were many thought provoking pieces scattered throughout the museum, and a few brilliant Old World Baroque masterpieces on the second floor—however, some really bad exhibits (and at least one defaced by toddlers), together with an entire floor of old furniture (lazily prepared) seemed contrary to my vision of what proud standing, elitist Dallas art looked like.

Nevertheless, bad art can be forgiven. My main quibble was with the managerial style, or lack thereof, which seemed to be perfectly embodied in my next experience. As I proceeded to the restroom area to do thy bidding, I saw a most alarming sight, the likes of which might provoke allusions of a trompe l’oeil, or at least a Banksy-esque prank.

As I looked to the floor and to the next stall over (situated in front of me, not to the side, because of the awkward design) I noticed a pair of bare human butt cheeks grimacing at me from below the bottom of the stall. At first, I figured maybe it was a mistake, or perhaps a case of a poor foreigner confused at how American toilets work.

However, the longer I looked, cruelly held hostage and exposed to the ass-inine trauma, I noticed the individual had mature-looking legs. I fear this was perhaps an older man—perhaps one of the staff attendants still harassing me? Of course, it is quite possible the butt belonged to a bratty young person (with old, leathery legs); still, what a shame that he was allowed to run through the museum defacing art, and defecating on art lovers. By the time the butt started wiping itself for my viewing disgust, I knew this was intentional harassment, and of all places, suffered while at the Dallas Museum of Art.

I regret that I did not snap a cell phone photo of the “Dallas Art Butt”, as proof that this experience really happened (trust me, I having nothing to gain from writing a fictitious review), and perhaps as a mooning snapshot, well-symbolizing Dallas’ snarky response to my criticism of its Dallas Art Museum.

I fled the scene quickly, not wishing to provoke the pair of buttocks anymore than I had. Nevertheless, I feel it is my duty to warn you of what you might encounter should you choose to visit the museum. The human body is not always a thing of beauty in art, at least not in the restrooms of the Dallas Art Museum.

Wyly Theatre, Dallas-Backstage Entrance

Subversify welcomes Alexandra Bonifield, a theatre critic out of  Dallas, Texas.  You can find more of her writing at http://criticalrant.com/

By: Alexandra Bonifield

Like most theatre-loving folks in Dallas and as a regional theatre critic, I was very curious to see what the experience of attending a performance the new Wyly Theatre would be like. I got my chance this past Friday night, October 30, when Dallas Theater Center inaugurated its use of the Wyly Theatre with the production of Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream. I call the evening “My Nightmare on Pearl St.”

WYLY: Giant Gray Water Cooler

It took a while for my press pass to get confirmed by DTC staff, but when it did, I learned they arranged a parking pass for me at “the garage” so I wouldn’t have to pay $15 to park. I was instructed to “enter the garage from Pearl St. to get my parking pass.” Sounded simple. Seek parking pass, Wyly Theatre garage off Pearl St.

I hardly ever go downtown. Why would I? The theatre productions I review weekly are performed at a wide range of accessible venues in neighborhoods throughout the community. The closest I generally get to downtown is Deep Ellum for Undermain Theatre or Uptown for Kitchen Dog Theater. Plenty of free parking, close to the venues, with interesting bars and restaurants nearby for post-show discussion. I didn’t feel the need to Google the location; after all, the Wyly Theatre is a tall building standing off alone, probably sporting a prominent marquee of some sort, right? Hard to miss. I figured I’d get on Pearl St., cruise down to the theatre and park in its garage, as instructed. Just to be on the safe side, I left home fifteen minutes early, to allow for traffic.

I get to Pearl St., no problem. Except, it’s one way. Not the way I need to go. I know the general location of the venue, so I start exploring the frustrating one-way, ‘no turns allowed’ zigzags one has to follow to negotiate downtown Dallas’ street maze. If there are street signs, I can’t see them at night. I know I’m somewhere close as I can see the lipstick red of the Winspear Opera House as I foray along. Oddly, I can find no sign saying, “This is the Wyly Theatre”, or “Wyly Theatre Parking Here”. Five minutes pass. I go by what looks like a giant old-fashioned evaporative cooler, a tall, grayish box-y building. Not attractive or welcoming. Maybe the Wyly? Nothing much near it except the Winspear glowing like a space ship in full bloom about a football field away. I keep making turns; sure I’ll see a line of cars going into the bowels of the earth below the building, with signs and uniformed attendants. Finally I come across a line of cars heading into a parking structure. Delighted, I join the queue. This has to be it; I won’t arrive late. As I approach the attendant gate, it occurs to ask if I’m at Wyly parking. There are no signs anywhere, none that I can see. Wouldn’t it be silly to be at the wrong garage? “You’re at the Meyerson, miss.” Oops. I glance at the LONG line of cars behind me. “How do I get out, and where is Wyly parking?” I ask in panic. Told to “drive on through” with a shrug as though this is an everyday occurrence, I begin the labyrinthine search for an exit, recalling the Minoans and Sartre, realizing that at least three of the four cars parading along ahead of me are being piloted by lost souls, too. Another five minutes passes, feels like half an hour. The exit looms, and I pull to its lip. “Right Turn Only” greets me, again no street signs. I am truly lost now.

“The Wyly, a tall box of a building wrapped in a skin of aluminum tubes, is standoffish outside and yoga-flexible within; in classic Koolhaas form, the 600-seat theater dares the Dallas arts establishment to complain about its severe, basement-level concrete lobby, the almost punitively narrow main staircase and a terrace lined with bright-green fake grass.” Christopher Hawthorne, in the Los Angeles Times

I note again that giant grayish water cooler structure looming darkly, and there appear to be cops wearing reflective orange vests on another street corner a half block away, directing creeping carloads of confused people. Maybe they’ll guide a lost soul?  Cheerily, they point me to the Winspear. I insist I’m there for the Wyly. “The WYLY.  It’s over there?” Cop smiles broadly. “It’s got no parking yet, miss; you have to park under Big Red.”  Big Red: a revelation. I turn left to approach Winspear parking entrance off yet another no-name street. To my amazed delight, the attendant has my name on his press-parking list, and I’m waved on in. By now, my “extra” five minutes have elapsed. My heart races, even if my car cannot due to the line of lost souls chugging ahead of me, seeking similar respite. I park my 2004 Kia Hatchback on Lexus P2, exhale a huge sigh and follow two ladies in stiletto heels to an escalator up. Up? I’m feeling disoriented by now. Am I still in Dallas or on some weird glass and concrete planet?

We arrive at ground floor level by Big Red. I can see Giant Gray Water Cooler some distance away. Trying not to fall into a dusky reflecting pool at walkway level, I approach another orange-vested gent. “Is that the Wyly over there, and how do I get to it?” I query him.  “Just hop right in this golf cart, young lady, and I’ll buzz you on over! There’s a long, steep slope and I’d hate to see you fall in the dark, hurrying down it.” Golf cart? I notice a flotilla of them. Steep slope? And howdy, more concrete. A bonanza for the skateboard set ought to be real interesting to negotiate in heels when black ice season hits. So, the terrain is flat around here…why dig a hole with a steep slope to bury the theater entrance below ground level? How will limos or cars with elderly and disabled people pull up close to disgorge their attending patrons? I flash on a sudden image of a graceful circular drive, landscaped attractively with colorful, live plants, flowing under an elegant, arching portico, bright-lit and welcoming. A bevy of handsome doormen bustle to assist patrons to alight. Chandeliers, buzz, merry anticipation? Wishful thinking. Back to dark, steep slope in a golf cart. Fake greenery. Grim aspect. It doesn’t even look like a theater.

Jeremy Gerard (former Dallas Morning News theater critic), in Bloomberg News: “In the Wyly, “There seems to be no quiet way for the actors to make exits and entrances; footsteps on metal stairs throughout the building pierce the walls, as do noises from the lobby. The seats are torture-chamber hard. All that stacked technology, I guess, required the entrance to the theater to be below the plaza level, down a concrete hill that seems to invite tripping.”

I emerge from my chariot and enter the Wyly’s main doors that remind me of a 1960’s science fiction movie set. I’m hoofing it now; don’t want to miss the opening moments of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. 8pm curtain. Can’t be hard to locate my seat.

I get my ticket at the press table and go through more sci-fi doors. Stairs loom ahead of me. LOTS of steep stairs. In grey metal, dimly lit. Whoa. No time to lay carpet before opening? I trudge slowly up, placing my feet carefully. On the landing, an usher purrs, “Thanks for going slow up these stairs, that’s very wise of you.” Ominous, yet… “Where is the carpet?” I wonder. “Gosh, these stairs are ugly and slippery. Hope there’s an elevator.” I’m baffled.

I find my seat on the ground floor, against the back wall, toss my purse and press packet into the empty chair bucket next to me and fall into mine. I need a stiff drink, but the show’s about to start, once the junior league chairman of the auxiliary committee to redefine art as we know it for the next century concludes his opening remarks. What’s this? No cush for the tush? Hard grayish plastic bucket seat, following the grey metal stairs motif. Ouch! Rough to sit through O’Neill’s Desire under the Elms or Stoppard’s The Invention of Love in chairs like these. Venue booking requirement; only short one-act plays, please, seats hurt audience bums too much for longer performance.  How much did Dallas pay for this theater? Does the architect hate audiences? Did he ever take time to sit in these seats? I’ve sat on high school gym bleachers more comfortable than this. These seats will be easy to wash–just hose them down. Note to self: if you ever return here to review, bring ample stadium pillow for comfort.

Then I look up and around. The seating here is raked, so why can’t I see the stage? A man, average-sized, no Afro, no Stetson, sits in the row below, directly in front of me. I can’t see most of the stage through his head. I’m no midget. A seat with an obstructed view in a theater that cost how much? I shift to the empty seat to my left. Better, I think, until I realize my view of stage right is now blocked by a huge, grey, (no other color will do) column. A seat with an obstructed view in a theater that cost how much? I’d be pretty mad by now if I’d paid for this.

Finally, relief! Shakespeare’s words begin to grace the air. It’s a fast-paced show with much running up and down levels, climbing ladders, and entrances and exits from all sides of the modified thrust stage. There’s a catwalk about five feet above my head. I realize I’m missing dialogue because of the loud clomping of the herd of elephants, “fairies”, charging pell-mell down the ramp above to get to their next entrance on time. No baffling? No carpet? More bleak grey metal surface perhaps? Another venue requirement: only produce shows here where actors are barefoot and tiptoe along the catwalks. Whose ridiculous idea was this?

Intermission arrives. My neck aches from leaning way over to try to view stage right action, and I can’t feel my derriere. I stand up. Presumably there’s a ladies’ rest room and a BAR, somewhere, but I may need to rappel back down the slippery metal stairs to find them. I stretch and eat a breath mint. Pass on bathroom and adult beverage, at least for here. Visions of Knox-Henderson late night.

The play ends with cascades of balloons and soap bubbles, loud music and dancing, commingling of audience and cast in what feels like the final scene from the film Slumdog Millionaire. I find an exit out of Giant Gray Water Cooler Wyly at street level. I don’t have to climb the steep slope back out of the hole in the ground.  I pause at the street corner en route to Big Red, marveling at the discomfort and confusion I’d just experienced. Who will want to endure it when winter comes, when rain and ice and wind whip across the vast emptiness between the Winspear and the Wyly, with no way to avoid their onslaught? Didn’t the architect learn about Dallas weather?

I ride a crowded elevator with other exhausted, stressed playgoers to Lexus P2 and slide into the comfy, padded driver’s seat of my lowly Kia. Before I turn on the ignition I find I can’t stop smiling. I really love reviewing Dallas’ regional theatre. Visions dance on my dashboard. I picture Undermain Theatre with its congenially tended parking lot right next to it on Main St. and Flower Mound Performing Arts Theater with its rustic charm, up close ground level access, free parking. I smell the breezes wafting off White Rock Lake by the Bath House Cultural Center and recall the warmth of its reception/ gallery/ box office area, the friendly staff. I recall how welcome I feel at well-lit Water Tower Theatre in Addison with its two clearly designated performance spaces, ground floor accessible, and easy to find bathrooms. Right next door is the Stone Cottage where MBS Productions performs with folding padded chairs, but no obstructed view in the house. I don’t mind sharing the one bathroom with Mark-Brian’s cast. At Lyric Stage I can drive right up to the brightly lit entrance and drop off a companion before I park in the lot adjacent; the excitement of live theatre spills out of the building from its ample carpeted lobby. No obstructed views and well-padded seats help make attending theatre there a pleasure. At Shakespeare Dallas’ Samuel-Grand Park setting, I set up my folding chair wherever the PR director escorts me to, ease back and enjoy a great view with snack and libation right out of my own ice chest. In Ft. Worth, there’s free parking after 6pm in the downtown garages on the square. Whether I’m heading to elegant Bass Hall or intimate Circle Theatre, I feel safe strolling to any of the eight or ten restaurants not five minutes from either venue before the show, or after, even if I’m alone. There are no steep concrete slopes to negotiate, unprotected from severe weather. I’m so glad the metroplex has a wide array of thriving performance arts groups and venues that serve the needs of attendant audiences and artists so well. My” Nightmare on Pearl St.?” It offers a different sort of memorable experience. I wish the Wyly Theatre speedy resolve with some of their evident opening challenges. I also wish Dallas Theater Center, flagship Theatre Company for the region, the very best with productions at its new, modern venue.

“Although Los Angeles is often dismissed (and misunderstood) by Europhiles as a city with no center and no heart, Dallas would be the better example….The Arts District is the cultural version of that city. Here star projects sit in self-satisfied isolation, unrelated to each other, unconcerned. If these buildings are supposed to be part of an effort to ‘regenerate’ or ‘reconnect’ the city center, they have failed.” Edwin Heathcote, in Financial Times

Quotes pulled from Scott Cantrell’s article in the Dallas Morning News Sunday, November 1, 2009: “Critics weigh in on Wyly Theatre and Winspear Opera House”

By: Grainne Rhuad

“Satan is Real; and he is Black”

This is the title I received in a recent press release for the Underground BlkVampires and I was instantly intrigued.  I love a band that isn’t afraid of inciting attention.  I have been known to show up and support shows that in all actuality I would have never examined based simply on their persona.  You see, to me and a lot of music lovers going to a live show is a part of the ‘show’.  I don’t want to see music videos, I want an experience and this band seems to embrace that with a vengeance.

From their Press Statement: “BlkVampires is a ‘Must See’ band who have literally torn down houses in multiple venues leaving sprinkler systems and lighting fixtures hanging from the ceilings, while audiences stand in pitch black rooms. These monsters continue to excite and move crowds. Meanwhile, club owners drop lawsuits, while still asking for the band’s return, solely based upon their live shows. These 6 members combine Hard Alternative Gothic Soul music in a way that resembles what Queen did to rock & opera. In a moment you are listening to sweet tenor vocals, then suddenly your ears are jolted into sounds of sheer terror to slick cool rhythm guitar licks into pure metal. All this, while in full regalia a la Marilyn Manson and Slipknot.”

BlkVampires hails from New York, its band members come from boroughs in and around the city and between them have a more than decent resume. Forrest Thinner, the singer has been in Knights, 24-7 Spyz, & The Fluid Foundation.

Bass player, Raymond Anderson has played for Black Rebel Indians (Funk/ Rock&Roll/ Reggae)

Rhythm Guitarist Chan Booth Played with Prowler, Troy Brown’s Style, Remi Leku and other groups of musicians assembled by Forrest along the road to forming BlkVampires.

Ramsey Jones, the drummer and background vocals for the BlkVampires! His first band experience was with Abstract; he has also backed up Rha Goddess, Akebulan, Funk face, Alexis High tower, Vernon Reid. He recorded an album with Vernon Reid in 2001, which never came out. He also appeared on various Wu Tang Albums with his cousin is RZA.   His youngest brother was Ol’ Dirty Bastard.  He just recorded a track with Corrine Bailey Rae which will be on her next album.

Lead Guitarist Kute Tonge has played Karma, Fire and Brimstone, Lionheart, Boom Bits, Dayme and the Kicks, and Gingee and the Gun.

Most of the BlkVampires are well versed and experienced in genre bending music and BlkVampires is just that providing Heavy Metal stage sound with unexpected funk tracks laid down right when you wouldn’t expect them and yet it feels just right.  I had to know more about these Vamps so here they are in their words:

G.R. – Who or what inspires you musically?

Ramsey - I started playing drums at the age of 5. Banging on various Tupperware. Pots and pans included. My first musical epiphany occurred at that age. My father summoned me into the living room to watch Jimi Hendrix obituary on television. I became enthralled by his appearance and at that time, you rarely saw black people on television. My father purchased the first Beatles album and Jimi’s “Are you Experienced”. Blew me away and informed what my life would be from that point on.

I started to seriously learn drums and guitar and piano. Any instrument to express myself and learn to write music. I also began to listen to every genre of music because I am a sponge for any kind of music.

ChanD- (My)Influences include Jimi Hendrix, Neal Schon (Santana/Journey), Prince, Eddie Van Halen, Randy Rhoads/Ozzy Osbourne, Earth, Wind & Fire, Jimmy Page/ Led Zeppelin, David Gilmour/Pink Floyd and Perry Mason. My first band was Abstract and it started in 1989 with a group of friends I grew up with. My talent had made others who witnessed my band at various venues like CBGB’s, Space at Chase, Limelight, Brownies, and Wetlands. Those were the days playing that scene in New York circa 1989-2001

G.R. – I am aware that Forrest Thinner was previously in 24-7 spyz, I found an interview with him on the website for the City Gardens Film project- Riot on the Dance Floor, would Forrest like to talk about playing there. I ask because the press release highlights the band’s propensity for tearing down the house and City Gardens pretty much exemplifies the house being torn down. Is this the feel that BlkVampires want to bring to its shows?

Forrest- In regards to bringing down the house, the idea comes from and actual show where I hung from and light fixture, and it came down. The band continued to play to a pitch black room, while workers tried to get the lights back up. We don’t want club owners to think that they will always tear up their venues; otherwise they will never let them play.

G.R. – In your press release you state “Satan is real and he is Black”. Are you referring to the Christian ideal of Satan or the hedonistic aspects as represented by the Satanic Church? Or are you giving Satan an all new spin. If so, explain a bit.

Forrest- Satan? We are using Satan as an alternative to things, like the opposite of things. Good/Evil, Yin/Yang, Day/Night etc…To blame the Devil for everything that goes wrong in this world is crazy, when God allows it!

G.R. – Who are your fans? What demographic are you attracting? Are your fans the ones you intended or did it just turn out that way organically? When I watch your videos I see mostly a white college age audience, do you think they “get” the funk and soul musical references? Also I don’t see a lot of the Vampire social scene present at the concerts, but this may just be circumstantial. How does the Vampire culture receive you?

Forrest- Our fans are new and developing. Since we are from the Northeast, our fan base is also here, and it’s turning out this way organically. We play multi bills with different acts so this brings us a wide audience and yes, whites understand soul and funk very well and appreciate it. The vampire scene has not made a presence at our shows, yet we play with everyone they only go to their “kind” of events.

G.R. – I have to ask about the cross burning, I am intrigued because you are a Black band, how is that received? I think it is provocative to say the least, but what is your intention with it, shock &awe? Or a statement or both?

Forrest-The burning cross is like a fiery preacher that’s speaking the word of God, the Klan used it to put fear in black people, we use it to put light in ALL people. Our intention is to free your mind. Imagine a Jewish band with a swastika…wild huh??

G.R. – How much do you interact on a daily basis with your fans? Do you utilize Twitter, Facebook, blogging, etc. on a regular basis to allow your fans to feel they know you, thereby generating excitement or do you keep a distance and cultivate mystery?

Forrest- Fan interaction, yes we do it on a daily basis. On Facebook there are people that actually come to our shows or support us. I want them to feel us personally and the ones that don’t we’re a cool mystery too. We are also still on MySpace. One of the band members has a twitter account. I (Forrest) also hand out flyers/stickers on a regular basis, which is another great way to meet and interact with people.

G.R. – I see Genre’s themselves as passing away. More and more there is so much blending, punk and cabaret, metal and soul, ukulele and …well that damn instrument is popping up everywhere. However when you go to search and buy and post music you still have to announce a genre. How do you deal with this as your music definitely is genre bending.

Forrest-Our music genre if you will, could be called “Alternative Gothic Soul”. That’s what we tell people. It’s like Al Green vs. Pantera or Maxwell vs Marilyn Manson. Soul music is worldwide. What Queen did to Rock and Opera we are to Alternative Gothic Soul. There is no equal.

G.R. – Listening to and reading through the lyrics which it looks like mostly Forrest wrote, they are mostly fun and saucy with a sense of taunting in some cases, except for War which was a bit more political. Right now do you see this group as a vehicle for drama or social commentary or both?

Forrest- Both!! The lyrics typically reflect the songs’ titles and since we’re a multifaceted band our songs should also reflect that. Like the Beatles, their names sounds like bugs, but of course don’t sing about insects. The band Vampire Weekend also doesn’t sing about vampires. We aren’t necessarily trying to be anything in particular (social, political, etc) we are just trying to do things organically. Whatever hits us in our chest, that’s what we sing about.

G.R. – I did see via Twitter that ChanD is a runner. What else do you all do on your own time? P.S. ChanD also tweeted “Curling is the greatest sport ever created by men.” Which cracked me up and while yes it is a great sport I have to disagree, I think Running the Ba is the greatest sport. Just thought I’d put that out there. Violence and a history of head stealing who can beat that?

Forrest- My time is promoting this band, which is why we’re communicating now. I’m like a machine with this….I like it. I feel we’ve got the uncanny thing out here and your article can help take us through the roof!!

ChanD- I spend my free time at the gym, on the golf course, and, of course, traveling to follow the international curling tour circuit.

Ramsey- What I do in my spare time is collect records and Cd’s. Yes I still buy Cd’s and records because I hate downloads! I also love to read and research music history and history on various topics concerning towns and countries. Art also inspires me and nature. I love to collect music from the 60′s. Rare psych, soul mod jazz, anything odd and unusual from the era. I love all eras of music. The 60′s and 70′s were the best.

Kute Tonge- I like to boogie board

G.R. –What I always want to know about everyone I meet is: what book is currently being read or what was the last book read, who is in regular rotation on your daily soundtrack and as it is the right time of year what is your favorite Horror story/movie?

Forrest- Frankenstein by Dean Koontz was the last book. In daily music rotation are: Rammstein, Sade, and The Game. My Favorite Horror movies: The Exorcist/The Thing! /Horror Hotel

Raymond - Current Book Being Read: I Want To Take You HIgher The Life and Times Of Sly and the Family Stone by Jeff Kaliss. Last Book Read: Pharmacotherapy: A Pathophysiological Approach by Dipiro et al. Favorite Horror Movie(s): The Exorcist, The Sixth Sense.

ChanD- Currently reading two books: “Dreams from My Father” by Barack Obama and the Keith Richards autobiography “Life”. As for horror films, since we’re in October, this is a very timely question. The first “Halloween” always made me jump. Very basic story. Creepy and suspenseful music. Low budget production. No frills yet very compelling all around. Very influential to many horror movies to follow. It’s always the simple stuff that ends up being the most effective. Classic.

Ramsey – Books I have read lately were “The Chitlin’ Circuit” by Preston Lauterbach, The Brief, Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao by Junot Diaz and Little Willie John’s Bio. All excellent books. My favorite Horror films, too many to mention but I love “The Exorcist” and “Halloween”. I listen to a lot of music from the 60′s. Today’s music is lifeless and boring. The only good music from this era is music you don’t hear on mainstream radio. Mainstream radio is garbage to me. So I go out to find music on College radio and small radio stations. Digital streams and checking out interesting music in record stores, Independent, that is.

Kute Tonge- I am currently reading a book called Self Realization. Mercyful Fate is in regular rotation on my daily soundtrack. One of my favorite horror movies is the Wolfman with Lon Chaney.

BlkVampires are the type of band that is embodying the ideal of doing what you like and enjoy, cutting out the middle man and bringing the music directly to the fans.  This trend that began out of necessity is lately becoming the “It” thing to do” with well established musicians leaving their labels and taking advantage of the global networking and technology.  While this is all well and good for the guys late to the party, underground bands like BlkVampires understand the best selling point is the music and the show and bringing it to the people  whenever, where ever and giving it everything.

Most of all having fun and Bringing Down the House-Light Fixtures and all.

To See BlkVampires and get upcoming concert information, go to Subversify Viral where you will find videos chosen for you by the Band.

Subversify endorses vampires, and especially “black vampires” who keep things real. Listen to their demo and take a peek over at Grainne Rhuad’s featured interview with “BlkVAmpires.”

Grainne Rhuad-

We don’t often do PSA’s at Subversify, but once in a while we like to use our influence for good.  Plus we love Musicians and hate Haters.

To the people who stole my Les Paul (Ladner/Tsawwassen)

Date: 2011-06-21,  9:11AM PDT
Reply to: sale-quajk-2449158332@craigslist.org ^{[Errors when replying to ads?]}

To the people who stole most of my stuff out of my studio on June 5, including my main guitar of 43 years, let me tell you about it. 

It’s a very altered, but very real 1953 Gibson Les Paul Model – Serial # 3 0621 (stamped on the back of the headstock)

This is not a gold-top.  In the 1950′s, it was refitted with an ABR-1 bridge and stop tailpiece, and then refinished, all by Gibson.  The green colour in the picture, (especially on the rear half of the body where the light reflection is less), is accurate.  It’s one of the lightest Gibson Les Pauls, and the only one of its’ colour, that I’ve ever seen.

I’ve made many other changes to this guitar in favour of playability:
–changed the P-90′s to humbuckers
–had the neck thinned and it, the back and the sides were refinished
–when it was refinished, the serial # was stamped in
–replaced worn out machine heads with gold Gibson ones
–added brass switch ring, jack plate, and rear cavity covers that were made for me by my now-deceased brother-in-law
–added a truss rod cover with “Les Paul” on it
–installed strap-locks (for obvious reasons)
–there will be traces of violin bow resin in and under various parts.  It is the best guitar ever for bowing.

This is a one-of-a-kind instrument in so many ways.  It is completely recognizable, down to every screw on it.

I’ve been in the music business all my life, and have a large list of friends and contacts.  With the help of countless amazing people, many who I don’t even know, http://web.me.com/outgolfing/Equipment (which details what you took) has been sent across Canada and around the world to more people – musicians, music stores, pawn shops, studios, rehearsal rooms, and other musically related businesses – than I ever imagined possible.  It’s been passed around since you broke in, and is continually going out to more people.  In fact, I’d bet people reading this will pass the link on to others if they already haven’t.  This will continue unendingly until I find my guitars and other equipment.  My green Les Paul is already one of the most recognizable instruments in Canada, I can guarantee you that.

Here’s your scenario:
–No collector will want this instrument because it’s not even close to original.
–No legitimate business will buy it from you.
–Any creep who would knowingly buy a stolen guitar will give you a pittance for it.
–If you keep it for yourself, you’ll never be able to play anywhere with it, and it will tie you to the crime and to all of the other stolen equipment for as long as you have it.
–You didn’t even take the case.

It’s my most personal possession, and I have always planned for my son to have it one day.  By the way, the other Mesa Boogie Dual Rectifier head you took was his.

It’s not of much value to you, but to me, I can’t buy another Les Paul like it because another one doesn’t exist..  Here’s a thought:

Have some decency and redeem some karma.  Bring my guitar back.  You’ve fucked my studio up and stolen a life-time collection of my shit.  You stole my guitar rig, which was MY sound that I’ve spent years achieving.

You haven’t ripped off a money making business.  You’ve ripped off my life and my spirit immeasurably by taking away the tools of the pursuit of my passion.  I’ve worked extremely hard for my whole life to earn my right to do so, and you took it all away in an hour or two.  You’ve also ripped off my son, now, and in the future.  I don’t have the money to replace the gear, so it’s just gone.

Just give it back – NO QUESTIONS ASKED.    PLEASE

Maurice

• Location: Ladner/Tsawwassen
• it’s NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

PostingID: 2449158332

By:  Grainne Rhuad, A.B. Thomas and Karla Fetrow

It’s that time of year again!  We love February at Subversify and not just because it’s the shortest month of the year, we love LOVE Day.  Mostly because of it’s bloody origins, like Lupercalia in which young naked men get splattered with blood and good olde St. Valentine himself who lost his life for it. Yeah, we love a good blood soaked love story. 

But we also love to show our appreciation for those who have sparked perhaps the greatest light in our own humble lives-yeah, subversiveness itself! So go grab a big box of chocolate, a cupcake or bowl of conversation hearts and get to know some of our staff’s subversive heroes.

Harvey Pekar-

Nearly everything about Comics is subversive, from the Superhero’s down to the artwork.  There is something about living out our fantasies in sereal form that calls to a lot of us.  From their very inception they have been troublesome.  Distain was shown even for Superman by teachers who would have their student read “real” literature and not “daydreams”; as if any literature was ever created without any daydreaming.  In the 1950’s and 60’s on American University campus’ everywhere Spiderman was listed as high as other emerging American subversive heroes like Bob Dylan and Dr. King.

More modern subversive shenanigans from the comic world are easy to point the finger at like the anti-heroes in The Watchmen.  Then there’s Neil Gaiman’s Sandman which won a World Fantasy Fiction award in 1991 and effectively closed the option of a “comic” ever winning again. 

However this year I want to sing my subversive love song for the underground comic hero, Harvey Pekar who unfortunately for us left this earthly veil on July 12, 2010.  Harvey is an unlikely hero and that is why I love him. 

Harvey’s comics began in the late 1960’s when he began to see how popular this medium was for storytelling.  Harvey felt he had a lot of stories in him.  Being himself, he ruminated about the project for some time, showing pictures to friends in the business and having characters based on himself appeared as “Crazy Ed” in Robert Crumb’s The People’s Comics.  Harvey’s own serial American Splendor released its first issue in 1976. 

He chronicled himself, his real life and interactions and something which seemingly never should have worked, telling tales of the outsiders people too often overlooked by artists;  bums, janitors,  Vietnam vets, waitresses, jazz freaks, grad students,  all the most  mundane encounters became something magickal.  He became an underground hero and remains so to this day. It could also be said that he was the pre-cursor to blogging.   His desire to show real daily life the way he experienced it is what so many of us have at our fingertips.  Harvey cut the trail.

 Harvey also realized what most writers fail to, at least at first; you have to live a life to have stories.  To that end, he never gave up his minimum wage job as a file clerk Cleveland’s Veteran’s Administration Hospital, he didn’t retire until 2001.  Also serving him well was his early years as a jazz review writer, hanging out in clubs and soaking up jazz so much so that it flowed through his veins.  In a way his writing was very jazz-like, not following rules or lines but just expressing each moment, what came to him. 

He was a break out writer who made it possible for more grown-up comics and graphic novelists to make it.  He is the person most pointed to as touchstone for writers of adult serial fiction today.

 He continued to work up until his death and in fact had several projects in the works at that time which we may see at a later date.  He will be missed.   But maybe most importantly, he will be emulated.

Studs Turkel-

“We can’t make any choices unless we connect the past with the present. The thing that horrifies me is the forgetfulness.”-Studs Turkel

If you ask anyone under 30 today who Studs Turkel was I’d either be surprised or figure they are in journalism if they know.  However it wasn’t very long ago that Studs was a cherished Interviewer, right up there with Walter Cronkite and soaring the heavens above Barbara Walters to my estimation.  Even died in the wool Republicans would tune in to listen to and watch Studs’ interviews with politicians, writers and activists. 

Without Studs Turkel there would be no Jon Stewarts.  He set the stage for both realism and entertainment in interviewing, but also for getting to the heart of a matter, peeling away the bullshit.   

Studs had an early career in acting and radio. In 1949-50, he even starred in his own television show, Studs’ Place, an informal series set in a Chicago restaurant. It was a short-lived role before NBC kicked him out. Studs had signed petitions believed to be Communist in origin, for price control, rent control and anti-Jim Crow. NBC offered salvation-”all I had to do was say I was duped”-but Studs refused, not out of morality but out of ego. “What do you mean I am dumb?  I wasn’t duped; you bet I signed those things!”

But this was this Hoover Era and it landed him squarely on the side of subversives.  Did Studs consider himself subversive?  Decidedly.  However his brand of subversion was to work within a system to bring real issues to real people in a way they could digest. 

This understanding was probably fostered early as he grew up in a boarding house, his parents owned in the Chicago area.  He spend his early days listening to the concerns or laborers, filing clerks, business men and it shaped  him, he was not sheltered from the concerns of adults. 

Studs in one interview used a poem by Bertold Brecht to illustrate his point: “When the Chinese Wall was built, where’d the masons go for lunch? When Caesar conquered Gaul, was there not even a cook in the army? When the Armada sank, King Philip wept. Were there no other tears?”
Like many of us here at Subversify it is the small stories that mattered to him “What’s it like to be that goofy little soldier, scared stiff, with his bayonet aimed at Christ? What’s it like to have been a woman in a defense-plant job during World War II? What’s it like to be a kid at the front lines? It’s all funny and tragic at the same time,” says Terkel.

Studs did this both on his radio show which enjoyed a 45 year run and in several books including Hardtimes (1970) Working (1974) –Which interestingly enough, Harvey Pekar authored a graphic adaptation of ,and  American Dreams: Lost and Found (1980) .

Studs the consummate commentator summed himself up best a year before his death at 95 years of age in November of 2008 by saying this:

“If I did one thing I’m proud of, it’s to make people feel that together, they count,”

Mojo Nixon-

It was the mid 80’s when the Alberta of University beckoned to me – for the glory of 25 cent hi-ball night. As I braced myself against one of the rows of cheap wooden tables waiting for the psychology majors luv call, “damn, am I ever shit faced”, a duo took to the stage to provide the night’s drunken debauchery’s musical accompaniment. The first four songs driven by slick guitar and washboard playing was good but then, as if the Virgin Mary herself had mooned me, the tall wild haired guitar player/singer pulled out a big plastic milk jug. He proceeded to bash the milk jug over his head to provide the beat for a little ditty called, “Mushroom Maniac”; my journey into transmojoification began.
Since that fateful night, the Mighty Mojo Nixon has provided many a nights of music, humour and dead on social commentary. Over the years he has taught that it is not evolution, but “Elvislution”, because Elvis was a perfect being; he taught that there was the evil opposite of Elvis, the anti-Elvis: Michael J. Fox. He has sung songs that tug on the heart strings to make the strongest of men cry, such as “Vibrator Dependent”. Mojo has even solved one of the mysteries of today’s society, why are there so many UFO sightings? It’s because we’re the interstellar truck stop and you just can’t get no “Beanie Weenies” in outer space.
Mojo Nixon has taken the art of humour in order to make profound social commentary. Songs like “Get outta my way” rebelling against the rat race and dirty concert promoters, to “Ain’t gonna piss in no jar” about mandatory drug testing (though he did say he would do it – as long as Nancy Reagan was going to drink it up), legalizing marijuana, artists selling out (Don Henley must die) to 2009’s “Dr. Laura who made you god”, Mojo has written and sung against the grain of the tired masses subjugated to inane legislation and societal formalities that have made little sense yet are continued to be practiced. When the stars were pillowing their pockets with doing tributes to Lady Diana upon her death (who can forget Elton John singing “Candle in the Wind” – and of course the repackaging of the tune? I know I can’t – no matter how many brain cells I attempt to kill off, Mojo came out with a song that expressed the inner feelings of so many –“drunk divorced Floozie”.
Mojo Nixon, the redneck Plato, has proven that you can make a person think through the sneakiest entrance, a smile. Nixon can be heard on Sirius Radio’s “Outlaw Country” from 4 to 8 Eastern Time daily.

The Shopper Cache Tapes-Vern Foster-

Vern Foster runs a busy convenience store in a small, primarily residential town.  In this rural community, convenience doesn’t just mean stopping by to pick up a soda and snack on the way home from work.  Nor is it confined to the closest place to buy your cigarettes and alcohol.  Convenience means gas, video rentals, showers and laundry, as well as those essential, last minute items you forgot to buy in town.  It’s a home away from home.  In one corner of the laundry mat is a television and benches.  Even if they don’t have something to wash, the locals come in on Sundays to watch the football games on the cable channels.  Nearby the cashier’s counter is a coffee station where free coffee is cheerfully dispensed in Styrofoam cups.  People huddle around the station on winter days, stamping the snow from their feet and catching up on the gossip. 

The customers develop the idea this is their store.  They tell Vern what they’d like to see on the shelves; a new energy drink, their favorite salsa, baking items they unfailingly need.  If Vern thinks other customers will buy it as well, he’ll stock it.  An entire row is devoted to all those various candy bars you can rarely find in the chain stores anymore, yet that still strike fond childhood memories; Idaho Spuds, Rocky Road’s, Chicklets, U-No bars and a host of others.  If customers think his store needs to be used to drum up funds for a family in crisis, he’ll willingly put out a donations can with a photo of the family and explanation of their needs.  If they are looking for a kid to do yard work, a handyman to fix their furnace, a plow to clear their driveway, they go to Vern for his list of local workers. 

Recently, Vern Foster won a certificate of appreciation from the Peace Officer’s Association.  To those who know Vern well, and even those who have simply observed the way he runs his store, this might seem a bit ironic.  Vern is possibly the most politically incorrect businessman in the entire community.  He follows the city code and rules of conduct only as far as is necessary to run a legitimate business.  He won’t repetitiously check the ID of customers who are obviously of age or have been returning to the store so often, he knows them on a personal basis.  He won’t establish a dress code.  Often an early morning cashier has stumbled in to open the store in pajama bottoms and slippers.  Once he made a remark about the low cleavage some of the girls were showing, but when I asked if the customers had complained, he answered, “not at all.  Keep up the good work.” 

His instructions to his employees are that they should never say they are working.  They come to the store to play.  This means mock fisticuffs with the construction crew that comes in, drum rolls and cheerleader calls over a winning pull-tab, and tag games with the store owner’s grand-daughters.  Sometimes, customers will come in to see the cashier standing on the counter, putting away cigarettes. Most are no longer astonished.  Many are disappointed if the cashier doesn’t do a little dance, crack a joke or in some other way justify the “grand staging”. 

 Joking and playing are a serious part of Shopper’s Cache life.  Whether talking to a five year old or an eighty year old man, the important thing is to have the customer leave smiling.  To the little boy, whose eyes are like saucers barely swimming above the counter, “oh, you’re five cents short.  Let’s see if Mr. Frog has something to say about this”, while shaking out five cents from the penny catcher.  To the grave military man, spanked out in full uniform, who pauses and asks, “Are we good?”  A cheerful wink and reply, “I’ve been assured that we are.”

Vern became furious when gas prices starting hitting the roof, deciding the oil producers had become too greedy.  He quit buying gas from the big companies, looking around until he found a couple of independent producers who were willing to fill his station at a cheaper rate.  He then began selling his gas at just five cents per gallon over what he had paid for it, making his prices ten cents a gallon cheaper than his closest competitor.  It wasn’t long before he’d seized all the gas contracts for the local truck drivers and had developed a reputation for having the cheapest gas in the state. 

How did this very uncharacteristic man manage to receive appreciation from the Peace Officer’s Association?  Quite a few years ago, Vern decided in order to protect his family, his employees and the property, the best solution was to barricade his business with cameras.  From the leisure of his bedroom, he could then watch everything that went on in the store and the parking lot, and have twenty-four hour recordings. 

This saved him a great deal of fuss.  There was no longer any chance of someone wrongfully suing the store, claiming an infraction or targeting the clientele through a staged accident.  The cameras told the whole story.  It also helped him pick out the shop-lifters, the stolen check writers and vandals.  He kept a wall of shame with photos of the miscreants in action.  Stealing alcohol was an absolute no-no.  Even if the infraction involved nothing more than a $1.50 “shooter”, the photo went up.  He’d turn his back however, and pretend he didn’t notice the mom who stole a loaf of bread and a can of beans to feed her family.   

Over the last three years, his cameras caught an identity thief who had already rung up a hundred thousand dollar spree in a sixty mile radius.  He froze on tape, three young people who together had a collection of check books with which they wrote out thirty-five thousand dollars in stolen checks before his photo shots apprehended them.  He also managed a clip of what could have been used as one of America’s dumbest criminals.  A man with a pick-up truck, winch and chain, tried after-hours to remove the ATM machine standing just inside the doors.  Smashing the glass panel, he wrapped a chain around its concrete post and tried to pull it loose from where it was cemented to the floor.  Failing in this, the culprit then decided to try his luck at a store a little further down the road, leaving the ATM machine sagging over like it had been on an all night binge. 

It’s possible the police would not have been able to connect the two crimes, leaving the perpetrator with nothing more than vandalism charges, except the truck driver forgot something.  Having successfully pulled out the safe from the neighboring store with his chain and winch, he zoomed back up the road past Shopper’s Cache, the safe tumbling on its chain behind him.  The truck was caught on tape with its stolen loot and the driver was charged with burglary and attempted burglary. 

Most of those hours of tape, to be sure, are solely for Vern’s entertainment.  Knowing full well where some of the cameras are located, customers make a point of waving into them, blowing kisses, making monkey faces or other silly antics.  Occasionally, Vern will call up and advice the cashier to kick so and so out of the store.  Being kicked out of the store was a badge of honor.  It meant you were brazen enough in your performance to command Vern’s attention.  When it’s important, however; when the tapes undeniably betray a person’s wrong doing to another, that segment of the tape is copied, the disk turned over to the police for investigation.  This past winter, his tapes apprehended a child molester who had tried to accost a child in the Shopper’s Cache parking lot. 

Vern deserves the appreciation of all peace keepers.  He runs his store with kindness, compassion and riotous humor.  He concerns himself with the well-being of his community, but does not concern himself with adults personal vices, gossip or bedroom scandals.  He rebels against the establishment, but quietly, subversively.  He protects the victims of lies.  Can we truly, individually, make a difference in our communities?  Vern proves we can. 

Editor’s Note: We wanted to pay homage to our most valued interim Publisher Tashi, a cocker spaniel of deceptive beauty and great pride. However, having come to know Tashi over the last month we know he would distain and also probably pee on our accolades.  So, please do get to know him through his story, Raining Cats and Dogs which we have been running here in parts and will soon be available only through Subversify.   It should be noted that Tashi is THE most Subversive dog we have yet come across.

By: Grainne Rhuad

Subversify got its start when a few writers met in seemingly coincidental circumstances.  So it should be no surprise to us that the internet Norns should continue to lead to our doorstep more talented artists and writers.  Such was the case when a love of avant-garde circus/punk musician Sxip Shirey brought Clara Engel to my proverbial door.  It was kismet.  Her music is lovely, refreshing and defies definition as so much of the music I listen to nowadays does.  It’s full of the round fullness of folk mixed with snapshots of modern life that is easily relatable to many.  She reminds me both in her music and her answers to interview questions of a bard of olde, here to truly tell a story. 

This 28 year old who hails from Canada describes herself as mostly self taught, musically.   She has been playing with music and writing her own songs since childhood.  She also draws although she does not describe herself as an artist her albums bear her artwork.   Her voice is a strong and definite one.  She has been touring mostly eastern Canada but also some of the American northeast.  Please do follow her at one or more of her links as support for independent artists is what allows them to bring their art to us face to face.

Grainne: Your profile states you live in Montreal.  Are you a native of Quebec and if not where are your roots?

Clara: No, I was born in Toronto. I moved to Montreal last summer. Both of my parents are from Quebec though, so I’ve spent a lot of time here. In terms of roots, I am half English Irish Scottish and half Russian Polish Jewish.

Grainne: When/how old were you when you started playing music?  Did you come to it on your own or were you a child who was exposed to music via family/school/lessons?

Clara: When I was eleven or twelve, I picked up a guitar. It was a Framus classical guitar that my father had owned since before I was born, I think. One day I just picked it up, and I really took to it. I started writing songs when I was thirteen. I did have some music lessons, but I’m mostly self-taught. I sang a lot when I was really young. But music in school was awful. I had a mean music teacher who used to conduct singing tests in front of the class. He scared me so much that my voice literally got stuck in my throat when he would call on me to sing. It’s a vivid memory – I would stand there shaking, making this strangulated attempt to sing, for thirty seconds or so (it felt like five minutes) and then be told to sit down. It happened repeatedly, and I failed singing right through grade school. My single great memory of music in a school context is of this one Orff music class we had in first grade. A woman came to our school, with a giant basket of percussion instruments. I can still remember singing a song she taught us about a river, and banging on drums and shakers. I was buzzing with joy. It was such an inclusive, unselfconscious and physical approach to making music. I didn’t experience the joy of making music in a group again until I was in my 20s and I started playing with a band.

Grainne: When did you settle on an instrument or have you?

Clara: I mainly write on the guitar. At some point, I’d like to try writing a whole album without allowing myself to use the guitar… maybe an album for drums, voice and bells. But I am very at home with the guitar. I enjoy how physical and percussive it is, and being able to re-tune it.

Grainne: You describe most of your work as unfinished, sketches of a moment.  Do you do this on purpose?  Did you begin to recognize others filling in your unfinished work with their own stories?  If so how do you feel about this?

Clara: I said that in 2009 I think. I don’t agree with myself now. My aesthetic happens to strike many people as stark. So I was trying to defend my work by saying: it may seem unfinished, but it’s meant to be that way. Now I don’t explain or defend the form of my songs, I just write and play them. I don’t work with musicians who are compelled to fill in every space. It’s a very abstract notion, to finish something. When your life is finished it means you’re dead. Maybe I just want my work to stay living, mutable. I love space, and silence is so important in music. I like it when people find their own meaning in my songs, and it’s thrilling when someone covers one of my songs and makes it their own. That’s happened a few times now, and it really pleased me. In terms of the openness of my work, I’d say that resisting a singular meaning or stance is a perfectly valid stance. I want my songs to remain open to new interpretations, not to be bound to a singular story, and they’re definitely not diary entries.

Grainne: Are you of the opinion that once you are finished and walk away from a project it belongs to the world?  Or do you maintain ownership over your unfinished vocal imaginings?

Clara: I don’t understand the concept of ownership as it applies to music. Songwriting is a contribution to a huge canon; folk music is a giant river of song. In that context, the idea of plagiarism is irrelevant because it is understood that songs come from other songs, that there is no original song or idea. That doesn’t mean I don’t want to be paid or credited for my work, I do. I just don’t find the concept of originality to be very convincing.  

Grainne: Who have been your musical influences? 

Clara: There have been so many… two that spring to mind right now are Sephardic Jewish music, which I came to through Yasmin Levy, and Armenian music, which I came to through a collection of Armenian lullabies. I love Vic Chesnutt, Dirty Three, Laurie Anderson, and Jacques Brel. Really early blues: Robert Johnson, Son House, Geeshie Wiley. I love what I’ve heard of medieval music. I’m drawn to songs that go for the jugular. I am simple and brutal when it comes to the music I love. I hardly even like to talk about it. I get inarticulate. Explaining, understanding, pinning them down is like butterfly collecting – highly stylized murder. Now I think about it, music and butterflies are kind of alike… fleeting and unattainable, not to be held. This was even truer before music could be recorded – then you’d really have to treasure live music. You might never hear that song again. It makes me think of William Blake: “he who binds to himself a joy does the winged life destroy…” The more I try to explain why I love something, the farther I feel from its living, changing being.

Grainne: You also draw; do you consider yourself a multi-media artist?

Clara: Not really. I guess I consider myself an artist in a broad sense of the word. I feel useful when I am making things. I’ve designed most of my own album-art. I like to draw, it calms my nerves, but I don’t consider myself a visual artist, at least not at this point in my life. Mostly I avoid having to describe my work. Recently someone called it “singing poetry” and I think that is quite a good description.

Arc by: Clara Engel

Grainne: I love Bandcamp and the whole idea of subverting the music industry by bringing the music directly to the fans and forming a closer fan/musician relationship.  How did you find your way to Bandcamp?  What has been your experience there?  Pluses and minuses?

Clara: One of my best friends, Alex Olsen – a musician/composer and also the co-mixer of my album Secret Beasts, recommended that site to me. Overall it’s been really great, and empowering. What I don’t like about it… it used to be free, and now they take 15% of sales. So I no longer get the full amount. That is pretty standard, but disappointing nonetheless.

Grainne: Here’s an interesting question for me…If you had the opportunity to sign with a big record label and leave the Bandcamp type of scene would you?  Why or why not?

Clara: I’m not an expert, but from what I gather, most big record labels are floundering. So, I really don’t know. It depends on the label. If it was a label associated with artists whom I respected, I would do it. I’d prefer not to ‘leave’ the other scene; I’d rather combine the two. The most frustrating thing about being independent, or in being as independent as I am, is that I can’t afford to tour or record at this point. Hopefully this will change soon. I’m currently working with a couple of independent labels, Vox Humana, and Tapemancy – they are releasing some of my work on vinyl and tape, respectively. I just have so many new songs that I need to record. I’m exploding with songs.

Grainne: How do you reach your audience?  Have you been touring and if so where? Do you use the internet to connect with people using places like Facebook, Myspace, etc. and to what effect?  Do you blog your musical/artistic experiences, if so, how is that received? 

Clara: I’ve reached the audience that I have mainly through the internet. I’ve actually made some amazing connections online. The artist Yuki Komura, who painted the portrait of me that appears on the actual physical CD of my album Secret Beasts, found me on Myspace. He’s an incredible painter, and it was such a random stroke of luck that our paths crossed. I’ve also met musicians who I’ve worked with and played shows with via the internet. The internet is an essential tool for independent artists. In terms of touring, I mainly play in Montreal right now, and do mini-tours in the USA. NYC, and Massachusetts mainly. I’m planning to tour more in Canada, and hoping it will work out that I can play in Europe soon too. As for the blogging question, I used to be into blogging and then went off it. I’m going to start again soon; I’m going to start a wordpress site.

Clara Engel by Yuki Komura

Grainne: Do you have plans for touring in the future?

Clara: I’m releasing something on vinyl in the UK, and am really hoping that will translate into a tour there. I would love to play in the UK, in France, and in Ireland. I also will be playing in NYC, and probably Boston and Philadelphia, in May.

Grainne: What kinds of gigs do you like to do?  Up-front and personal ones with lots of audience interaction, or gigs where you maybe have less interaction but more musicians involved for support?

Clara: My dream show at this point in time would be in a church, probably solo, or with the drummer and horn player I work with when I’m in Toronto, Paul Kolinski and Nicolas Buligan. I sometimes talk to the audience, and sometimes it feels best to just play and let the silence breathe between songs. I’m getting more and more comfortable with silence.

Grainne: How old are you?-I ask this because I like to get a sense of what generational influences you have and are working with.

Clara: I’m twenty eight, but that says very little about my influences. I saw less than ten films in theaters when I was a kid, and hardly watched any television. When I was nine or ten I was really into Gilbert and Sullivan. I really loved The Mikado. I find that funny considering the music I make now.

Grainne: What is on your nightstand at this moment?

Clara: Mad in Pursuit by Violette Leduc.

Grainne: What is the best thing you have read in the last year?

Clara: Three Steps on the Ladder of Writing by Helene Cixous. Also, All About Love by bell hooks, and A Book of Luminous Things, the poetry anthology compiled by Czeslaw Milosz.

Grainne: Who currently gets the most play on your iPod? (Or similar device)

Clara: Right now I’m listening to The Original Carter Family. Before that I was listening to this band called Opal Onyx, from NYC. Also in heavy rotation are John Grant, Sxip Shirey, Armen Ra, The Irrepressibles, and Larkin Grimm.

Grainne: What do you most want people to know about you?

Drawing by: Clara Engel

You can listen to and purchase Clara Engel’s music at Bandcamp @ http://claraengel.bandcamp.com

You can help support her new album @ http://www.kapipal.com/dc4a9de39ce64980a90a675bc4f8b0b7

You can follow Clara Engel @ http://www.myspace.com/claraengel and http://www.facebook.com/#!/claraengelmusic

For Artwork by Yuki Komura: http://yukikomura.com/menu.html

Ode to Beachy Head
by Renee Y. Brown

On England’s south coast
Is a cliff so high
Suicidal folks boast
It’s a great place to die
Much worth the trip
If you’ve got the mind
To take a slip
And smash to grinds.

The aspiring dead
They fall, they fall,
From Beachy Head
And that’s not all
They jump, they fly
And then, they die
Oh, if I could
Then so would I!

I hear the call
Of Beachy Head
So far, so tall
So spirited!
That highest cliff
Of the English coast
There is no “if”
Or faint approach
To that terminal height
And final dive
Descending in flight
Splat! I’ll arrive
My ghost to haunt
This foreign shore
No pain no want
Never here, never more.

The chosen fate
Of gourmet suicides
Like the Golden Gate
It’s known worldwide
So come one, come all
To a suicide’s ball
We’ll drink, we’ll dance
Then take the fall
Into endless romance,
Metaphysical.

My sister lives near Beachy Head
And so
I will go
To join the dance of the dead
Oh sister dear
Don’t cry, don’t fear
Death comes, death comes
To everyone —
Whether we embrace it
Or run
Whether we face it
Or shun —
You can try to outrace it
But it won’t be outrun.

I choose
My own
Longevity
The time, the place, the way
Of meeting with eternity
So I can have my say
Over fate, biology, and God —
Since I care for life less
Than I love my dead dog.

King of White Roses
by Renee Y. Brown

Will I see you again,
                         golden, golden —
On the field of my final homecoming,
                         there shining —
You, heart of a lion
Unconquered —
                         golden, golden
And mine.

You, heart of a dove;
                         infinite, unbroken,
                         faultless and loyal
Facets of a diamond
Hard as courage, never unknown;
White light of compassion
Never unshown.

I dream a field
Of pure white roses;
I see you,
Splendid gold amidst a galaxy of whiteness,
The only star in a vitreous sky.
You walk…then run to me;
Even the roses sigh
                         when you pass by —
They part and bow their blossomed heads
Genuflecting in your honor.
They fill my arms to overflowing with the fragrances of white:
                         Sweet innocence —
                         Essence of honor —
                         Freshness of
                                                  Immaculate love —

But the roses fly everywhere
When you jump into my arms!
Petals flutter as they fall
Anointing you in celebration —
The return of the son
And the only true love
As one, to the other
Never parting;
The promise kept.
My long waiting in the measurement of time is over —
And at last,
                         The Gate opens wide for us.

My eyes will weep with joy
When we reunite, my
                         Golden One;
I will shout
Hosanna!
                         And even the palms shall lay down for you
                         In the field of final homecoming,
My King of White Roses —
                         golden, golden.

art by Tara Lee Grady

If
by Renee Y. Brown

If there exists
In quantum stride
Between, betwixt
This shore, this tide
A different field
Of infinite scope
I’ll gladly yield
To highest hope —
With consciousness
And wiser eye,
This sorry flesh
In which I lie.

The End of the Line
by Renee Y. Brown

It’s a mighty short road to the end of the line
Seems like you just get here then you’re out of time
You can walk, you can run, you can crawl, you can fly —
Still your whole life’s over in the blink of an eye.

It don’t seem right,
It sure ain’t fair;
But the end of the line
Will always be there.

The end of the line ain’t a place or a time
There ain’t no money, and nothing is “mine.”
Got no hunger, no fear, no want or pain
No need for shelter ‘cause there ain’t no rain.

All are equal at the end of the line
Bag-lady and billionaire stand side-by-side
Judgment ain’t easy, but there’s one thing you’ll know;
You get what you’ve earned, be it ‘up’ or ‘below.’

Got a few rules judgment tends to go by
Decent human values and ethics apply —
If you know ‘em and shown ‘em you’ll be just fine,
But a sociopath will break down and cry!

If you’re thinkin’ the judges are random and cruel
Remember this one inescapable rule:
When you’re ‘called on the carpet’ for the final and true —
Look at yourself ‘cause the ‘judges’ are YOU.

So the last shall be first, and the first shall be last;
Some go up easy, some go down fast
There’s no ‘do-over’s’ so don’t bother to whine —
Too late for self-pity at the end of the line.

We’re all on our way to the end of the line
Some take it quick, some take their time
Some stand in the middle, can’t make up their minds —
But there’s no going back, so why look behind?

There are times when I wish I could get there right now
Because I’m so weary, so beaten, so hurtin’, so down…
But sometimes I feel like I’m doing just fine —
That’s when I hope
It’s a long, long road to the end of the line.

One Tiny Rose
by Renee Y. Brown

The tea rose may be small in size
But its meaning far transcends its guise.
Bestows this message to those bereaved:
“Love conquers death,”
Implied — Believed
Upon one tiny rose received —
And placed in one small casket,
Grieved.

“With this rose you take my heart,
With this rose, remembrance starts;
One tiny rose to encompass all,
Me—the finite; You—immortal.”

Blessed are they who mourn, unreserved;
Through them a greater good is served.
For those who love their all and best,
Shall with the richest grief be blessed.

“This one tiny rose I give you today
Shall bloom in white for as long as it may
Until you give it back to me, still new —
And we dance among roses of every hue.”